


Speak Now Or Forever Hold Your Peace

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Avalon - Freeform, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Creative License, F/M, Gen, HEAVILY reliant on creative license, M/M, Multi, You Have Been Warned, because they're in the afterlife, idk - Freeform, is it seriously though?, it's only tagged as major character death because the major characters are dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27524791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: Avalon. Legendary Isle of Apples... Land of Eternal Youth... Resting Place of the Dead.Nothing but peace and happiness is ever felt upon it's Heavenly shores......except, so it seems, if your name is Sir Lancelot.
Relationships: Freya & Lancelot (Merlin), Freya & Will (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Lancelot/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)/Gwen/Lancelot
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Speak Now Or Forever Hold Your Peace

**Author's Note:**

> You will not believe how many versions of this there have been. It was supposed to be a really short, cracky oneshot and then it turned into... well. this.  
> It started out from Merlin's POV, then I wrote out a whole thing from Geoffrey's POV, then I changed it to Arthur's POV - but that became a sort of character study - and this is what I've ended up with.  
> Also, fair warning, I have no idea what happened with Freya. Yes, she's a near-blank slate in the show, but I really went a bit wild with her characterisation. I just have this image of her - when she's not exhausted/scared out of her wits - being a bit - uh - "catty". But with a good heart? I don't know. 
> 
> Kudos are always, always appreciated, and please let me know what you think in the comments!

Freya slinked down the spiral staircase, running a hand through her sleep-mussed hair with a silent yawn. The long train of her snow-white coat trailed several steps behind her, making her feel as though she were an Empress on the way down to the ballroom of her grand palace, instead of a dead woman sneaking to the kitchen for a quick snack. 

She paused beside an arched window and stretched luxuriously, joints popping in the most satisfying of ways. With a contented sigh, she gazed through the glass and smiled. The moon was full that night: bright and bold, a silvery daub of a child’s finger-painting; the stars like spilled sequins across the sleek, blue-black slate of the sky. 

She thought back to a time when the first shadows of evening would cause her to break out in cold sweat - when the sight of the stars were more reminiscent of a horde of torches brandished by a hunting party, and the moon more like the damning glint of a Knight’s armour, the clattering gallop of hooves charging toward her and a lance pointed straight at her heart. 

Now, however, it looked harmless. The curse erased, she could look up, up into the night sky through the awe-filled eyes of the little girl she once was; the one who sat sandwiched between her loving parents, as they explained the constellations from the porch of their rickety lakeside home. 

It calmed her, and she now looked forward to nighttimes, when she could lay under the moonlight as it soothed her into a slumber - much like the one from which she'd just woken up.

Though Avalon’s days and nights followed the same cycle as Albion’s, there was no real need for sleep - same as how there was no need for eating, drinking or breathing, though most residents engaged in those activities anyway out of habit. For Freya in particular, it was more a case of making up for lost time. She had, after all, been a bit of an insomniac when she was alive, what with her nights being taken up by homicidal rampages and her days spent riddled with guilt and paranoia. The moment she realised she no longer had to live like that (mainly because she no longer lived at all), it had almost become a challenge to take as many catnaps as possible in the space of a day, before the novelty wore off. 

Not that it ever would; boredom was not something you were supposed to feel in Avalon.

She drank in one last glance of the stars, before she pushed herself away from the window, lifting the front of her coat from the floor and continuing on her way downstairs.

Nimbly, she leapt past the last few steps, and dropping the folds of fur, tiptoed across the cold stone floor towards the kitchen doorway. 

She peered around the frame. 

Sir Lancelot was sat at the kitchen table by the dim light of a candle stub. A thick, grey quilt was pulled around his hunched shoulders, over the top of the same off-white tunic she’d seen him in all week. His skin was grey too, dark stubble growing in patches across his jaw, deep bags hanging heavily under dull eyes. He was staring morosely into the tankard cradled between his hands, apparently deep in thought. 

Freya let out a snort. 

“ _Drama queen._ ”

Lancelot startled and looked up as she made her way into the room. He stared at her, uncomprehending. Freya rolled her eyes. “What?” she drawled, “was I supposed to say _“couldn’t sleep?”_ ”

Lancelot blinked the disorientation out of his eyes and looked her up and down.

“That’s… a fashion statement,” he said slowly. Freya grinned at him, preening. 

“You like it?” She struck a pose to show off the coat in its full glory. “Princess Mithian wore one just like it when she visited Camelot.”

For some reason, the explanation had the complete opposite reaction that she’d been going for; instead of causing a _“wow”_ or a _“yeah, Freya, you should wear it more often”_ , Lancelot’s face dropped and- were those _tears_ in his eyes?

“Ah…” he sighed glumly, “Mithian’s visit. The one she made after I ruined Guinevere and Arthur’s relationship.”

Freya dropped the pose and glared sternly in Lancelot's direction. 

“That wasn’t you,” she said, pointing at him with a chastising finger, “that was Shade Lancelot.” Her eyes narrowed. “We do not speak of Shade Lancelot.” Lancelot shrugged.

“Shade Lancelot may as well have been me.” 

“Shade Lancelot was _nothing_ like you.”

“No, Shade Lancelot was _exactly_ like me - how do you think he had everyone fooled?”

Freya bit down on a growl.

“Stop _blaming_ yourself for Shade Lancelot’s shitty actions.”

“Well, Shade Lancelot wouldn’t have _existed_ without me, so I’d say I’m at least partially responsible.” 

“You don’t even _remember_ _being_ Shade Lancelot!”

“But _they’ll_ remember Shade Lancelot - as _Lancelot_.” 

Freya, unfortunately, didn’t have any argument against that. She covered her face with her hands and groaned. 

“Irritation shouldn’t exist here,” she muttered into her palms, “It shouldn’t. How am I irritated? It doesn’t make _sense_ .” She dropped her hands to her sides and resumed her glaring. “And _that_ irritates me even _more_.” Lancelot responded with what was possibly the weakest smile Freya had ever seen in both her life and death. 

"Well, I suppose it all worked out fine in the end,” he said. Freya raised a questioning brow.

“How so?” she asked. 

“Gwen and Arthur are engaged again,” he said cheerily - or at least, tried to but ending up with an oddly high pitched squeak instead. He coughed. “Isn’t that wonderful?” 

Freya moved to stand behind him and stared over his shoulder. Lo and behold, the surface of Lancelot’s apple cider displayed an image of the two lovers with their tongues down each other’s throats. A thick, silver band flashed from Guinevere’s index finger. Freya smirked.

“ _Lancelot_ ,” she teased, playfully hitting him on the shoulder. “You _voyeur_.” 

Much to her annoyance, the man didn’t bite. Instead, he forced his smile wider, though she was sure she could see it wobbling at the corners.

“I’m not watching them out of perversion,” he said humbly. “I watch them because it brings me joy to see my loved ones so happy.” Freya gave him disgusted look. 

“Okay - brushing over the sheer corniness of what you just said,” she said, gulping down the bile that’d risen to her throat, “in no way would I describe the face you make when you’re scrying as _“joyful”._ ” 

Lancelot continued to smile that same, woefully transparent smile. 

“Not to cause offense,” he said gently, “but maybe you’re bad at reading expressions.”

“I am _not bad at_ -” she huffed and started over. “Stop denying it. I _see_ your face when you watch them. I can’t _miss_ it, actually, because you’re watching them all. The. Time. _All the damn time_.”

“And it fills me with pleasure every time I am.” 

Freya gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. 

“You have a problem.”

“I do not.”

“You _do_ . Lance, you never drag your bloody _eyes_ away. It’s like you’re - you’re-” she gesticulated wildly, grasping for the correct term “-you’re _glued_ to your scrying screens.” 

Lancelot tilted his head in such a way that Freya felt as though she were being condescended, and clapped a reassuring hand to her shoulder. 

“You worry too much, my Lady,” he said gently, “I can stop any time I like. I simply choose to seek out the company of their faces wherever possible.” 

“No,” she snapped back, shrugging him off, “no, it’s not normal.” She reached over to snatch the tankard from his lifeless fingers and - ducking as he swiped at her with a grabbing hand - downed the cider in one go. She smacked her lips together in satisfaction, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth and slamming the empty mug on the table with a sharp _thunk_. 

“There,” she breathed, grinning triumphantly “Now you can stop peeping on Gwen.”

Lancelot didn’t answer, too busy gaping at the empty tankard. With a roll of her eyes, Freya headed over to the kitchen cabinets to find something to eat off her (impossible) frustration with.

She ran her eyes over the cupboard doors, tapping her chin thoughtfully. 

“Hmmm…” She pulled open the one directly in front of her with a silent spell, perusing the contents with narrowed eyes. 

“Apples, apples… Huh. Seems like you’re low on Granny Smiths. You think I should stop by the orchard on the way to Will’s this afternoon? Lancelot?” She turned back to face him, only to find a sad lump of blankets slumped over the table with only Lancelot’s eyes poking out, both of which were still fixed on the tankard.  
“Oh for Hell’s sake.” She marched towards him and began waving a hand in front of his eyes to snap him out of his sulk, but the man gave no reaction. Throwing her hands up in frustration, she yelled: “ _What_ has gotten _into_ you? You’re in Avalon! How are you depressed? _You shouldn’t be able to feel depressed here!_ ”

The blanketed lump-of-Lancelot shuffled in place, and the gap in the fabric grew until the rest of his face was visible. He looked up at her, utterly pitiful.

“‘M not depressed, m’ Lady.”

The level of his denial made Freya want to reach out and shake him.

“Then _what_ ,” she demanded, audibly near the end of her tether, “do you call _this_?” She ran her eyes pointedly over his unkempt state, and then fixed him with an angry stare. 

“Just tired, ‘s all.” 

“You’re not supposed to be able to feel tired either!” 

Lancelot fell back into silence.

Freya clenched her teeth, reminding herself that Lancelot was going through a rough time, having to see his soulmate marry someone else. 

Then again, in the six months since he’d first died, he’d spent most of his time (bar the week where Shade Lancelot had reared his ugly-but-still-handsome head) staring into any reflective surface he came across and watching Guinevere live on without him. 

Frankly, Freya was getting sick of it.

Not of Lancelot - she was quite fond of him, really - but she was sick to the core of seeing the hurt so clearly glare through the cracks in his smiles. 

And “sick” was yet another thing that they simply weren’t supposed to experience. 

Unfortunately, she was at a loss as to how to pull her friend out of his wallowing. No matter how many times she tried to help, nothing ever seemed to work, and she would always end up finding him in front of a pond, or a mirror, or a tankard, such as the one that he _still had not dragged his eyes from_ -

“ _What_ is so interesting about that thing?!” 

She lunged forward to snatch it away from him for a second time, when her vision zeroed in on a droplet of liquid running down it’s smooth wooden side. By squinting, she could just about make out the miniaturised features of Arthur Pendragon, head thrown back in laughter, long, tanned throat on full display. “Oh, _you little-_ ” she picked it up and marched purposefully over to the window on the other side of the room. Lancelot gave a feeble protest behind her, but she paid him no mind, unlocking the window and pushing it open forcefully. Then, with an almighty swing, she flung the tankard right out into the night.

She watched it fly in a swooping arch through the air, until it was swallowed by the dark. A faint thud was heard from the distance, along with the rustling of leaves and the alarmed squawk of a crow that’d probably been rudely awoken. 

She appraised her stickish arms in mild surprise. 

“Huh,” she murmured, “not too shabby.” She spun around, placing her hands on her hips. 

“Right,” she said brightly, “now, what d’you feel like eating?”

Lancelot gawped at her. He shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know why that was necessary,” he murmured. 

“It was necessary,” she replied firmly, “because you have an unhealthy addiction to scrying.” 

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“ _Do not_.”

“You do. You’re not convincing anyone by saying otherwise.” She made her way back over to the kitchen to resume her position in front of the kitchen cabinets and clapped, rubbing her hands together eagerly. “Okay... _S_ _nack time_.”

“I do not have an addiction. I told you, I can stop any time.” 

Freya continued her search, opening the cupboard beside the one she’d already looked at.

“Yes,” she replied vaguely, “of course you can.” Lancelot huffed. 

“You didn’t have to throw my mug out of the window.”

“Mmmm, of course I didn’t.” she closed the cupboard, moving on to the next one along. “Do you think I should make something? I’m feeling a bit lazy, but I could whip up an apple pie if you’re really craving it.”

“My Lady-”

“Mind you, the crust would have to be made of apples as well, but I’m sure I could work something out…”

“But- my Lady-” 

“ _Or_ I could try and fashion a crust out of tree bark - how does that sound?”

Lancelot let out a long, weary sigh. 

“My Lady,” he implored, “truly, I mean no offence, but-” he paused and sucked on his teeth, then sighed again and asked “why are you doing this?”

“Well, mainly because I’m in the mood to eat, but also because your face is making me depressed - again, not supposed to happen - and pie seems an obvious solution.”

“No - I mean, how does me scrying all the time pose an issue for you? Because, really, I’m fine like this.”

Freya shut the cupboard door sharply as she turned to fix the Knight with a glare. 

“Maybe,” she clipped, “the concept can’t penetrate that thick, self-sacrificial skull of yours, but some people don’t _actually_ want to see you destroy yourself. I mean,” she let out a huff of angry laughter, “you’ve already gone and _done_ that, which is why you’re here in the first place , but at the _very least_ I want you to be able to _enjoy_ your death, not waste away, pining over an alive woman.”

Lancelot looked taken-aback. He blinked, and looked shamefully down at his lap.

“I apologise for concerning you,” he muttered. Freya looked at him, taking in the frown on his scruffy little face and the storm clouds that seemed to hang over his sausage of blankets, and felt her annoyance be washed away by empathy. 

The thing was, she realised, Lancelot truly believed he’d been doing the ones he loved a favour by pushing them away - and she knew the feeling. 

Merlin was the first person she’d loved since she’d been cursed, and it was because of the curse that she’d felt the need to leave him behind. Of course, it hadn’t worked, and she’d died in his arms - she’d never forgive herself for causing the agony that’d twisted his face as he’d held her - but there was a relief in knowing that his life was continuing without the added burden of a feral were-winged-bat-cat for a wife.

However, the tranquillity of Avalon had allowed her to reflect, and she’d reached a point where she knew that she deserved her own happiness, even when it seemed selfish. 

The benevolent nature of their afterlife meant that each person was granted that introspective peace, in order to work through any plight or problem that hadn’t been solved by the point of death. It also allowed people to look upon their loved ones fondly rather than with grief, or else everyone would be wandering around with mirrors in front of their eyes, lamenting their non-existence, and death would be an utter misery. 

For some, unfathomable reason, Lancelot seemed to be the exception to that rule.

Worse, it appeared to be catching.

Freya shook herself. 

“You don’t _apologise_ for having someone care about you,” she stressed, though she kept her tone gentle, “What you _should_ apologise for - _to yourself_ \- is how time and time again you put what you _thought_ other people wanted before what you _knew_ that you did.”

Lancelot let out a sigh, and - as though the breath within him was the only thing keeping him upright - the whole of his blanket puff deflated pathetically, and he flopped over sideways onto the table. 

Freya echoed his sigh, rubbing at her temple. She imagined a ghost of a headache haunting her head - unable to be felt, but still annoyingly present. Though, Lord knew how far the rules of Avalon would bend for her from overexposure to Lancelot. She wasn’t looking forward to finding out if hanging around him would corporealise the pain, but she knew already that she'd never give up on him, even if it did. With a resigned shake of her head, she dragged herself over to the ridiculous blanket-wrapped wet blanket and gave his forehead an affectionate flick. Lancelot’s face scrunched up in discomfort.

“Ow.” 

Freya scoffed and rolled her eyes. 

“You really are a drama queen.” 

“With all due respect, you’re certainly one to talk.”

“Fair, but at least I’m not the one defying all laws of afterlife nature just to be the pining protagonist in a bard-worthy romantic tragedy.” 

“You’re very mean, you know.”

She stepped back, brushing her hands over the front of her coat with finality. 

“And you exhaust me,” she announced, “and just let me reiterate the fact that we aren’t supposed to feel tiredness here, so that’s _quite_ the feat - so I’m going to head back upstairs to sleep.” With a final dramatic sweep of her coat, she turned on her heel and strode out of the room.

“But - you don’t even _live_ here!” Lancelot called after her.  
“I don't live at all,” she yelled back over her shoulder, “and besides, your bed is comfy.”

* * *

Will cackled as he replayed Arthur’s trousers falling to his ankles for the third time. 

“ _Fuck_ yes, Merlin!” he whooped, punching the air, “Make me proud, son!” 

As had become their weekly tradition, Will and Freya were reclined on Will’s ornate feather-down bed, surrounded by various snacks and drinks, in front of the huge gilt mirror they used for scrying - specifically for watching the events of Merlin’s life in episodes, him being the only loved-one they had in common. The episode they were currently rewatching had become a particular favourite of Will’s: as a whole, it involved Merlin trying to retrieve the last piece of the Triskelion - an artefact Freya had only heard of in bedtime stories - for a slimeball named Julius Borden. However, the main plot was often forgotten in light of Arthur’s pasty-pale thighs. 

Will was still hysterical with laughter as he waved his hand at the mirror to replay the scene yet again. “Oh- _oh_ _my God_ , I will never get over this part - _“allow me to help you sire!”_ ” he mimicked, putting on a deep, mock-chivalric tone, before collapsing into another fit of giggles. 

Freya popped an apple crisp into her mouth, munching as she pondered whether or not she should bring up a thought that’d been niggling at the back of her mind since they’d seen the whole fiasco with the poisoned chalice, and then deciding that yes, she should. She swallowed.

“You _cannot_ tell me that Merlin didn’t have ulterior motives.” Will eyed her confusedly out of the corner of his vision. 

“What d’you mean?” he asked. 

Freya took a moment to pick a few fallen crisp crumbs from the fur of her coat, flicking them off to one side, before reaching for the bowl again and scooping out a handful. She bit down on another crisp. 

“Well, clearly,” she said matter-of-factly through chews, “he’s ogling those fine kingly buttocks.” 

Will stared at her in horror. 

“You’re _joking_ ,” he gasped. 

“I assure you, I am not.” 

“Merlin doesn’t even _like_ him like that!”

“I assure you,” she countered, “he does.” 

Freya watched in mild fascination as Will retreated into his own mind, clearly struggling to compute the idea of his best friend perving on a Pendragon. 

“No,” he said firmly, “Merlin wouldn’t.” 

Freya nodded sagely. 

“Oh, but he would.” She licked the grease off her fingers and reached over to give Will a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “You knew this day would come, Will. They all have to grow up some time.” 

“But-” His eyes flicked to the mirror (currently showing a close up of Arthur’s thighs in all their naked glory) and back to her, his gaze pleading her to take back her words. Freya found herself feeling a little bit sorry for him (though she knew his distress would be short-lived, as was the nature of Avalon). She shrugged as though to say _“what can you do?”_ . Will let out a pitiful moan. “But he’s _literally_ responsible for both our deaths - how can he be attracted to someone who basically killed us? Who killed _me_?”

“Well, technically,” Freya corrected “he didn’t kill you. And yes, he _did_ kill me - but to be fair,” she picked her goblet off the bedside table and took a swig, “I _had_ mauled several of his citizens to death, first.” 

“That wasn’t your fault, though.”

“Sweet of you, but he didn’t know that. In fact,” she said, tilting the goblet at the mirror to indicate the image, “in both scenarios, he was trying to be heroic. And our Merlin’s got a bit of a heroism kink.”

“I really don’t want to hear about Merlin’s kinks, thanks.”

“If you change your mind, I have a list.” Will choked.

“You - you have a -” Freya nodded, placing her goblet back down on the nightstand.

“A list, yes. It’s quite extensive.”

“Exten- _what_?!”

“Oh, yes. Remember when - oh, I can’t place the exact time, but basically - Merlin was caught by Arthur in a corridor, and Arthur held him against the wall by his neck - got all up in our boy’s face, leaning in close… it was really quite steamy. Conclusion? Merlin clearly has a thing for choking. Seemed to be a mutual thing, too…”

“Oh, God-”

“Oh, and there were _guards_ present, so arguably an exhibitionism-” 

“Oh _God,_ _please stop._ ”

“Fine, fine. Though watching this again is making me think I should add Arthur’s arse to the list. What do you think?”

She turned to face him, only to find him staring blankly into the distance. She gave him a sharp poke. 

“Will? Hey, William? You in there?” 

“Merlin,” he croaked faintly, “is _not_ staring at Arthur’s-” he swallowed, looking like he wanted to cry. Or throw up. Possibly both. 

Freya made a gentle shushing sound, guiding him down to lay his head in her lap.

“I know, sweetie,” she soothed, stroking his hair in a motherly fashion. “I know.”

She hushed him quietly, pointing a hand at the mirror in order to change the image. 

“How about we watch a few Lancelot clips, hmm? Those parts always cheer me up.”

Will returned to the land of the living - or, rather, dead - to look up at her in askance.

“How the hell did you reach that crazed conclusion anyway?” 

“What?” she prodded, “That Merlin has a thing for Arthur’s-”

“Do _not_ . _Say it._ ” 

Freya tossed around a few of the many reasonings she had in her head, wondering which would scar Will the most. 

“It’s the Lust Face,” she said finally. 

Will poked a finger in his ear and twisted as though disbelieving that he’d actually heard those words. 

“ _Lust_ Face?” he repeated. 

Freya nodded. 

“Lust Face.”

“Care to elaborate?” Freya arched a brow.

“Do you _want_ me to elaborate?” Will grimaced.

“I don’t think I do,” he admitted slowly, “but apparently I’m in a self-destructive mood today, so…” he pushed himself up from her lap to sit cross-legged, turning fully to face her, and gestured for her to continue. “Explain.”

Freya swung her legs off the side of the bed, sliding off to stand. Gathering the masses of fur from the ground, she glanced around the room and noted the decorative swords mounted on the wall. She walked over to them and grabbed one, then made her way over to the mirror and stopped just beside it, spinning to face Will. “Right.”

She thwacked the sword against the screen, pointing directly at the image of Merlin’s face just before he cast the spell to drop Arthur’s pants. 

“William, you may not be familiar with Lust Face, either because Merlin never had a romance back in Ealdor, or because you’re oblivious-”

“Obviously the former.” 

“-but in any case, I _did_ have a chance to see Lust Face, because I saw it directed towards _me_.” Will opened his mouth- “and don’t you _dare_ say anything along the lines of _“can’t see why”,_ or I’ll stuff this sword so far down your throat it comes out the other side.” -and closed it again. Freya smiled serenely and laced her fingers together around the sword’s hilt, pointed end poking the ground. “Any questions?”

Will frowned.

“Yeah - what exactly are you defining as Lust Face?” 

Freya hummed, thinking. 

“It’s that- sort of lowered head, looking at you out of the tops of his eyes, uh- sometimes it’s just that little smirk he does, you know, the one that says “I want us to run away together to a field with cows and for you to have my babies.””

“Nope, definitely never seen that.” 

“You’re seeing it now. Pointed at Arthur’s arse.” 

“He does _not_ want to have cows and babies with Pendragon’s arse.” Freya shrugged.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” 

Will pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned backwards against the headboard. 

“You know what,” he said tiredly, “put on Lancelot. There is _nothing_ about that guy that you could ruin for me.” Freya obliged, waving her hand at the mirror and shuffling over to flop heavily back onto the bed. 

“How’s he doing, anyway?” Will asked. “He still…” he gestured vaguely at his head, “not good?” 

Freya sighed.

“I caught him in the wee hours peeping on an Arwen love-fest.” Will pulled a face. 

“Eurgh.”

“Yeah. The guy’s a mess.” Freya grabbed the bowl of crisps and lay them on her stomach, putting one arm up behind her head as she used the other one to eat with. On the mirror, Lancelot was gazing out onto Camelot’s town, while Merlin gazed at him. Freya gasped delightedly. “Ooooh, I love hearing him talk about being a knight. His nobleness in this part is still just attractive rather than infuriatingly self-sabotaging as _well_ as attractive.” 

Will rolled his eyes. 

“I suppose you’d say Merlin’s using Lust Face on Lancelot, now, too.” 

Freya stopped, crisp halfway to her mouth. 

“Wait, pause, _pause, oh my God, Will_ -” She frantically waved her hand at the mirror and the image halted, just as Merlin interrupted Lancelot’s monologue by calling his name.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, “Oh my God, you’re right.” 

“What? What am I right abou- no. No, that was a joke, Merlin is _not_ in love with Lancelot-”

“Oh, but he is,” Freya gushed, suddenly giddy, “and - wait, give me a second...” she flicked her wrist and the image fast-forwarded. Merlin and Lancelot now stood in a dimly lit corridor, heads leant intimately close together. Lancelot’s low, sultry voice was saying _“I saw you,”_ and there, tilting up the corner of Lancelot’s lips was a small smirk, a twinkle in his dark eyes as he revealed what he knew - eyes that were gazing right into Merlin’s. 

Freya’s lips formed a smirk of their own.

“You know what, William?” she continued, “I’m pretty sure Lancelot’s in love with him, too.”

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Dear OAFD.  
> If you're reading this before I send this to you (I plan to when it's a complete work), I wrote it with you in mind (obviously, I added the kink list because of you, after all). The idea came to me... a while ago. Specifically when this whole merwenthurcelot thing started. It's still in-progress, because I'm slow as all hell... but this is for you.  
> I hope you enjoy it.  
> Much love x


End file.
